


Close Your Eyes to Keep the Light In

by GraphiteFox



Series: A Necessary Arrangement [1]
Category: Welcome to the Punch (2013)
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 22:57:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3587187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraphiteFox/pseuds/GraphiteFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He didn’t want to rot in prison, but an aimless life as a nobody was a different kind of rotting.</p><p>Max is on the run with Sternwood.  He's got a lot on his mind, not the slightest of which is the fact that he's once again at the mercy of the man he hates most in the world.  Forgiveness is out of the question, but with some rationalizing, he might accept a truce.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close Your Eyes to Keep the Light In

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place just after the end of the film.

Close Your Eyes to Keep the Light In

 

 

              Max was not the most agreeable of companions. Before the gunshot wound, he’d been too intense, too driven for most people to tolerate. Afterwards he’d been moody and apathetic.

              When Sternwood had shown up to break him out of hospital, Max had been right in the middle of trying to figure out what the hell he was now.

              His explanations had been pointless. No matter how many times he told Juka what happened, the truth was there was no evidence to support him and dozens of bodies in his wake. Pointing out that half of them were Sternwood’s work only dug the hole deeper. So he’d given up. He’d shut up and laid in bed, waiting to be transferred to prison. Then Sternwood had shown up and fucked it all up again.

              With Sternwood, he’d taken every opportunity given to turn a conversation into an argument. So far, the thief refused to bite.

              “So you get to know my new name, but I can’t know yours?”

              “I’m not likely to seek you out ever again,” Sternwood pointed out. “If you wish to arrange your own identity, be my guest.”

              They were holed up in a hotel just outside of Berlin, awaiting their new documents. They’d gone through four “burner identities” to get this far, but the next set were to be theirs for the long haul. Sternwood moved through the motions easily—he had experience with disappearing, after all—but for Max, each transition became harder than the last.

              “You should have left me there,” he said, aware of how bitter he sounded. He sat in an armchair, watching Sternwood sort through his meager belongings.

               “To waste in prison for crimes you didn’t commit? You don’t actually think they’d believe your explanation, do you? How long do you think you would have survived?”

               “As opposed to how long I’ll survive on the run? Christ, we ran a fucking blood bath. How do you just accept that?”

               Sternwood sat on the edge of his bed and began flipping through a notebook. He had a system, not that he would let Max observe. “If you want to sit here questioning your morality, feel free. Leave me out of it.”

               “I’d have to,” Max responded. “Considering you have none.”

                It was a childish jab and he felt vaguely embarrassed, but he was too angry to care.

                Sternwood closed his notebook, a finger slipped between the pages to hold his place. “Grow up, Lewinsky. Either you accept the opportunity to start over, or you go back to London and die. Think about it some more. Maybe you really do believe in the sanctity of the law.” He flipped the notebook back open again and cast his eyes down at it. “Or maybe you just love sacrificing yourself.”

                Max grit his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, unable to look at the man anymore. Not now. What was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to do after seeing his murdered partner, whose body was left in his _bed_ as some gruesome taunt? Or after being betrayed by his boss, his co-workers, Hell—the entire _world_ it felt like, if he wanted to be particularly self-indulgent, which he did.

                And really, worst of all, what was he supposed to do after letting the man responsible for three years of mental and physical agony just jog away into the darkness?

                He’d been so lost in that moment and he still was. He’d lost his ability to navigate. Hate had kept him functioning these past three years, hate and a dogged resilience. And he’d had the shot and hadn’t taken it. _Why?_

                Part of him had rationalized that if Sternwood hadn’t made a kill shot when he could have, how could Max stoop below him? Another part of him respected the danger Sternwood had faced, all to help his son.

                Now here he was being forced to confront the fact that Sternwood had faced danger to help _him_.

                He _needed_ Sternwood to be evil. He needed him to be cold and cruel and hateful, like the Sternwood in his mind. He’d built up that man from one memory and three years of terrifying nightmares.

                The reality was as infuriating as it was disappointing.

                “It won’t be much longer,” Sternwood said, glancing down at the burner phone he’d picked up. “You’ll have your own documents and be free to go.”

                Max scoffed, scrubbing a hand across his weary eyes. “Is that right? You and I have drastically different ideas of freedom, mate.”

                “What’s your idea of death?” asked Sternwood. “Because if I’d left you in prison, that’s all you’d have to contemplate.”

                “ _Fuck_ off!” snapped Max, slamming his hand against the side table. Pain lanced through his injured shoulder. “Am I supposed to be grateful to you now?”

                “Not at all. I’m saying that you have your life. That should mean something.”

                “Yeah? And what if it doesn’t?” _What if I’m scared to die but living means the same thing now?_

                Sternwood watched him with those sharp, unreadable eyes. “That’s for you to decide,” he said finally.

                Max went into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. Pulling down his shirt collar, he examined the bandage on his shoulder. It was spotted red where he’d begun bleeding through his stitches. _Fuck_.

                Trying to keep himself in check was harder than he thought it would be. _No more pounding on tables_ , he told himself. Luckily they had no shortage of medical supplies. Sternwood had returned from one of his unexplained absences with a bag full of gauze, tape, painkillers, and dozens of unused needles. Max had been surprised to catch Sternwood washing down painkillers until he’d remembered the man had also been shot.

                Maybe he was more surprised that the thief could even feel pain. Occasionally he caught Sternwood looking lost like he had in the morgue when he’d realized that the body under the sheet was Ruan’s. They were brief moments of weakness that always dissipated back into the expressionless mask he normally wore.

                Sternwood didn’t have much left in his life either. _So what was the fucking point?_ Escape to some island or—God forbid—some freezing mountain where he could be alone with his miserable thoughts for another thirty or forty years?

                He didn’t want to rot in prison, but an aimless life as a nobody was a different kind of rotting.

                Max turned on the tap and rinsed his face. When he straightened, beads of water ran from his brows down into his shirt collar. _This is your life now, Max Lewinsky. Deal with it._

                What was one more complete upheaval in the span of three years?

                When he returned to the room, he found Sternwood looking at a map. The man flicked his eyes up at Max, then folded the map neatly.

                “Where are you going then?”

                Sternwood’s brows raised, but he said nothing. He was irritatingly silent majority of the time, which pissed Max off more than anything else. Everything about Sternwood was neat, calculated. There was no wasted motion in how he moved, no wasted breath when he spoke. How someone could be that organized was a source of never-ending frustration for Max, who could be best described as a powder keg. Or a really eager match.

                “Look, I’m done chasing you,” said Max, dropping back into the armchair.

                “Forgive me if I don’t believe you. You’re not the most consistent man.”

                “I _could_ have blown your fucking head off and I didn’t.”

                If he was going to question his morality again, using _not_ killing a man as a basis for good behavior probably wasn’t going to help. Max tapped his wrecked fingernails against the side table for a moment, debating on whether or not to voice the concern he’d been carrying since Sternwood had kidnapped, rescued, _whateverthehell_ he’d done to him.

                _Aw, fuck it._

                “You could have shot me again. Tried to defend yourself. You just stood there.”

                Sternwood stretched his legs out across his bed. “Consider it my apology.”

                “So what?” asked Max, feeling petulant. “I didn’t shoot you so I accepted it?”

                “Didn’t you?”

                Now _that_ was ludicrous. Max laughed. “Maybe some things have changed between us, but I’m not going to forgive you, mate. Being shot in the knee is not something you forget about.”

                Sternwood shrugged. “The circumstances warranted it.”

                “Yeah?” asked Max, his hands tightening into fists automatically. “So you would have shot me in the head then, if the circumstances warranted it?”

                _Damnit, Max. You told yourself you’d let it go. There’s no point to this._

                They watched each other for a moment. It was Sternwood who broke the silence for once. “You really are tightly wound, aren’t you?”

                Max didn’t know how to grieve properly anymore. After so many years of mourning his own losses, he’d forgotten what it meant to mourn the loss of someone else. _Are you really sad about what happened, or are you just sad that it happened to you?_ he wondered.

                He was sad about Sarah, who didn’t deserve anything that happened to her.

                The rest, he concluded, was just for him.

                Sternwood had closed his eyes and was leaning against the headboard, a pillow propped under his injured shoulder. Max had no idea how bad the wound was. If it was anything like his, it hurt like fucking hell.

                The skin under Sternwood’s eyes was starting to darken like bruised fruit. He had barely slept in the eight days they’d been running, functioning off a mixture of what Max assumed was painkillers and dark energy. The latter was him indulging himself. Looking at Sternwood now, exhausted and likely pained, Max felt a stab of pity.

                He wasn’t the only one who’d lost everything.

                Knowing Sternwood’s life was also in shambles should have cheered him up, but it didn’t. In truth, Max was running out of energy. Actively hating someone took a lot of effort.

                Sternwood inhaled sharply and his eyes flew open, searching the room.

                “Sleep, mate,” said Max, pleased at how calm his voice sounded. “You’re in no danger from me.”

                Sternwood made a humming sound low in his throat. “Are you sure you won’t change your mind?”

                “I’m not about to make you a fucking promise. Just sleep. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, which means you need to be functioning.”

                Sternwood closed his eyes again. Max became aware of just how silent the room was. He couldn’t even hear the other man’s breathing. The ache in his shoulder was becoming stronger. Soon he’d need more painkillers, but for now he tried to tough it out. It wasn’t much worse than what he’d already gone through. He could have become addicted before, with his knee, but part of him enjoyed the pain. It made him feel vindicated.

                Now he just felt tired.

                “Italy.”

                Max glanced up. Sternwood’s eyes were still closed. “Excuse me?”

                “Italy,” he repeated. “I’m going to Italy.”

                “Right,” said Max, not quite sure what he was supposed to say to that. “No fucking snow then, that’s good.” He paused. “Does it snow in Italy?”

                “Some parts. We can avoid them if you’re that sensitive to the cold.”

                _Hold the fuck up._

                “Are you _inviting_ me?”

                “Start learning Italian,” was his response.

                This probably called for some kind of angry retort, but Max was too flabbergasted to be angry. Instead he felt relieved. He hadn’t been lying when he told Sternwood he didn’t know what he was doing. Having someone else take control, even for a little while…well, he’d see how it went.

                “Right,” he mumbled. “I’ll get right on that then.”

                “I bought you a book.” Without opening his eyes, Sternwood pointed to a bag near the door.

                _Of course you did_. Shoving himself to his feet, Max made his way across the room. In the bag was a book entitled _Italian for Beginners._

                He didn’t know if Sternwood was capable of smiling, but he suspected that at least internally the man was fucking _beaming_ right now.

                _Asshole._

                Still, Max returned to the armchair, book in tow. _Chapter-fucking-one._


End file.
